


dark in my imagination

by MercutioLives



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Awkward Conversations, Canon-Typical Violence, Christian Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fratricide, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Illegitimacy, Jealousy, M/M, Matricide, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Self-Indulgent, Trans Male Character, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: Mordred meets Galahad when the latter arrives in Camelot, and he's nothing like Mordred expects the son of Lancelot to be. Unprepared for how dissimilar they are, and more so for how much they have in common, he doesn't know how to handle the budding friendship between them. How can a knight who is destined for destruction befriend one who is destined for glory?





	1. every stumble and each misfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/gifts).



> Originally, this was meant to be a one-shot prompt fill that I cross-posted from my tumblr, but the story got away from me a bit. I don't know how many installments there will be, but it's going to be less a cohesive, linear narrative and more like a series of snapshots that follow Mordred and Galahad over the course of their relationship.
> 
> It's been a hot minute since I wrote anything Arthurian, and I figured it was high time I got back into the swing of it. I decided to be extra self-indulgent and include some of my favorite headcanons, including trans and asexual Mordred, Galahad not being conventionally attractive, and Mordred just altogether being a grouchy emo brat. I'm not the least bit sorry for any of it.
> 
> Title is from "Dark In My Imagination" by of Verona. (Chapter titles are from various other songs.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Mordred + "Who were you with?"
> 
> Mordred's curiosity leads him to Galahad, but his jealousy gets in the way.
> 
> (Chapter title from "Good Grief" by Bastille.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from my [tumblr](http://mercutiolives.tumblr.com/).

Mordred had spent enough time around Sir Lancelot - as much as anyone _could_ , on the few occasions that the Queen’s Champion chose to grace the court with his noble presence - that he thought he knew what to expect of the youth with Lancelot’s eyes, who rode through the city gates one afternoon in late April. He only caught a glimpse of him, that first time, and striking though it was, said glimpse was brief enough that Mordred was able to fully forget about him for a while. There were much more pressing matters than the arrival of a boy who was certain to become a favorite of the King purely by virtue of his parentage. Their first _real_ meeting was two weeks after, and he hadn’t been looking for Lancelot’s son at all. It was thanks to his brother that they were ever acquainted.

Gawain’s laughter reached across the practice yard, such that it was impossible for Mordred to pretend he hadn’t heard it. In recent years, slowly but with a very clear surety, the two of them had grown increasingly further apart. Where once they had been closer than twins - indeed, Gawain had been closer to his bastard half-brother than to his own twin, the irascible Agravaine -, now they barely spoke outside of necessity. It caused a twinge of envy and resentment toward whomever was the recipient of that effusive laughter: laughter that used to be _his_.

“Who were you with?” It came out like a demand, ragged and sudden, without his consent, when Gawain passed him by later that afternoon. His brother was nearly half a head taller than him though he was a full year younger; Mordred tried to make up for the height discrepancy by lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders, but it made no difference. He was slight of build, narrow in the shoulders and the waist, and had more in common physically with the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting than his own brothers-in-arms. Gawain stopped on his way, blinking owlishly. Morgause’s secondborn wasn’t precisely the most intelligent of the lot, but even so, he couldn’t have been faulted for his confusion in this instance.

“I’ve been with a lot of people today. Not in _that_ sense, of course, God forbid, but - Mordred - I don’t understand?” One of the few things they still had in common was an inability to properly organize their words from brain to mouth. Mordred could be eloquent when he had to be, sometimes insidiously so, but he and his emotions were rarely on equal terms with one another. Gawain simply had trouble framing what it was he wished to say a majority of the time.

“This morning, in the practice yard. Someone must have been _uproariously_ funny, to make you laugh so loudly.” Piece by piece, Mordred watched understanding dawn on Gawain’s broad features, and something like relief - or perhaps it was pity? hard to tell with Gawain sometimes - relaxed the tension around his mouth and in his shoulders.

“It was Galahad, Lancelot’s boy. I hadn’t meant to laugh at him, but he’s so _serious_ about everything. A bit like you, really.” Mordred’s brow furrowed in consternation. He wasn’t serious about everything; he had a perfectly good sense of humor. It was simply that there were too few people these days who were worth laughing with. Perhaps it was likewise with this Galahad, he mused. Mordred had learned how to close his ears to idle court gossip (when one’s the bastard eldest of five brothers, one finds selective deafness very handy) so he knew precious little about Galahad at all. The fact that he was the bastard of Lancelot and Elaine of Corbenic was universally known, and was the extent of Mordred’s understanding.

“As you say,” he huffed, taking a bit longer to answer Gawain than he ought to have done. Gawain looked puzzled again, shrugged, and walked on. It didn’t bother him, since now he had a purpose to attend to. All in all, locating Galahad was not a difficult task: the first person he asked gave him good advice, and he found him on his knees in the palace chapel.

Now that he was able to take a proper look, Mordred thought that Galahad barely resembled Lancelot at all. His eyes, which Mordred remembered were most clearly his father’s, were squeezed shut in fervent prayer; the rest of him must have come from Elaine. They had that in common: Mordred mostly took after his mother, only taking from Arthur the spray of freckles that cluttered nearly every visible patch of skin and then some. He leant against the side of a pew, watching the hunched figure at his pious murmurings. He himself thought little of religion of any kind nowadays: all of it had failed him in some respect or another.

It didn’t take long for him to grow impatient.

“Are you reciting back the Bible? Because I’m fairly sure He knows what’s in it.” Galahad started and whipped about, half-kneeling still and looking too much like a frighted deer. Absolutely Lancelot’s eyes, but set into a much different face. His features seemed mismatched, with a nose too narrow and a mouth too broad; sharp, hollow cheekbones; and a heavy brow that, on closer study, also looked like it had been donated by Lancelot. His mousy hair was cropped so haphazardly that Mordred suspected he’d done it himself, without the benefit of a mirror. Although he was still on one knee, Mordred could tell that Galahad would be taller than him on standing, just like most everyone else.

“You’re the bastard.” For all that Mordred couldn’t decide if Galahad was attractive or not, there was no question whatsoever about his voice. It was pitched much lower than it looked like it ought to be, but that only made it more attractive to the ear. It was a voice clearly made for song, though without a doubt, the only songs it sang were hymns. He was so struck by it that, for a long moment, he forgot that he was supposed to be offended by the words it had made.

“That’s what they call me,” he replied eventually, sounding less perturbed than he wanted. By comparison, his own voice (which was called pretty, but more often than not in the same pejorative manner as was his face) was more akin to the bray of an ass. “Though I do have a _name_ , too, if you’ll condescend to hear it.”

“I know your name. I know all about you. But before I speak of it, let us leave the church.” Galahad stood up, brushing invisible dirt from his knees, and pushed past Mordred with a purposeful stride that somehow lacked the pompousness that it would have carried with it on anyone else. Undeniably curious, Mordred followed. Again, he ought to have been offended, and this time he was, without a doubt, but it was outweighed by fascination. In this short space of time, he was positive that there was something uncanny about the son of Sir Lancelot, and he was determined to puzzle it out.

They walked quite a few yards in silence before they came to an abrupt stop. It was approaching evening now, and no one else was around, which was generally how Mordred preferred things.

“We’ve left the church, I think it’s safe to say my name without offending the ears of your God. Or did you just want an excuse to get me alone?” It was worth the crude joke to see Galahad turn red, from the tips of his ears down to his neck. Laughter bubbled up from his lips unbidden at the sight, eyes streaming, breath in short gasps between cackles. At length, he sighed, finally on the way to regaining his composure somewhat.

“Are you quite finished? That was entirely uncalled-for, and I would like an apology. I am _not_ a sodomite, and to even _insinuate_ -”

“Gawain was right. You _are_ serious about everything. You can rest at ease: I have no interest in deflowering you, or anyone else for that matter, man or woman. There are a multitude of more interesting ways for me to spend my time. Now, you were about to tell me all the things you know about me that were unfit to be said within holy walls? I’m listening.”

He watched Galahad flounder, clearly frustrated and embarrassed at having been made sport of. He didn’t quite feel guilty, but it was a near thing. In the end, Galahad just shook his head and stayed silent, possibly realizing that he had nothing to say that wouldn’t make him a hypocrite. The lack of anything he could answer to brought his amusement crashing down, replaced with a sudden, sharp fury.

“That’s what I thought. You know as much about me as anyone else: I’m ‘the bastard’ and that’s enough for you, never mind that you’re a bastard yourself. I expect you’ll receive the accolade soon, too, though you’ve done nothing to earn it except you’re the right man’s byblow.” The bitterness wove through his words like a snake, though he knew that Galahad had done as little to deserve it as he had to deserve knighthood. If they spent any more time together, Galahad would learn that he was prone to such fits of rancor, and that it was not _for_ him that they were meant.

“Perhaps so,” Galahad said after a space, far more patient than he had a right to be. Nothing at all like the startled creature in the church, or the mortified boy of moments ago, he seemed altogether removed from the tone of the conversation. It was unnerving. “I haven’t earned anything yet. But if the Good Lord sees fit to bestow upon me a gift, who am I to deny it? I have to go. Good night, Sir Mordred.”

It was like this that Mordred was left standing alone in a courtyard, the night growing steadily more complete, as he watched the retreating figure of Galahad until it disappeared from view.


	2. the turn and the river

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two of...whatever this thing is. Mordred continues to be an emo little shit, but Galahad is less of a pompous buttwad, so maybe these two can be pals. We'll see.
> 
> (Chapter title from "The Turn and the River" by Jenny Dalton.)

Spring came to altogether too hasty an end, and summer crept on, made sluggish by heat and humidity. When he wasn't performing his knightly duties, Mordred was most often lounging by the river, enjoying the cool wind that whipped over the water. It was nothing like the seaside of his boyhood, with its grey waves and bone-biting gusts, but it was the closest he could find without riding for days to get to the southern coast - and even that would pale in comparison to the violent beauty of Orkney.

For all his bitterness at the thought of his childhood home, he truly missed the cold northern islands: there was nothing like them in all the world, and while most would find them barren and inhospitable, Mordred saw their true loveliness. He felt akin to the stony beaches and twisted trees: there was more to them, and him, than most cared to consider.

Under the beating afternoon sun, he sprawled on the riverbank with his feet in the water. This particular spot was hidden by a small cluster of trees and ferns, among them a large, drooping willow he liked to sometimes nap under. His dog slept a few feet away from where he lay, occasionally kicking her legs in the throes of some innocent, canine dream. It was separate enough from the crush and bustle of Camelot proper that Mordred felt safe enough to let his thoughts wend away from him a little: there had been much celebrating today and the day before, with the knighting of Galahad, and the whole thing was exhausting. Oh, he applauded and celebrated with the rest of them, but the face he wore around his brothers-in-arms had nothing in common with the thoughts behind it.

It had only been a few short weeks since the awkward encounter with Galahad at the church, and while he was content to let the memory of it float away from him, he couldn't quite rid himself of a lingering guilt whenever he saw Lancelot's son thereafter. They hadn't spoken more than once or twice since then, and only ever by necessity, but there was something underneath the politesse, and the part of Mordred that hated the hypocrisy of courtly manners longed to wrench it up like weeds and bring it out into the open air.

Yet, for as insistent as that part of him could be, another part of him knew that making an enemy of Galahad would be the biggest possible mistake. Already, Arthur adored Lancelot's pious son: Mordred had seen him glowing with pride as Lancelot delivered the accolade, in a way he had not done when he himself set Clarent upon Mordred's shoulders seven months prior. It wasn't that Arthur treated him as less than others: in fact, he treated them all the same, excepting Lancelot and Gawain (and now, it seemed, Galahad) - but wasn't that just the problem? Not once since his arrival had Arthur expressed any sort of affection for his only living son.

Mordred sensed the precipice over which his thoughts now dangled, moments away from sliding down into a dangerous chasm; he wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful at the all-too-familiar voice that yanked him back to safer ground.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't known anyone was -  _ oh _ . Sir Mordred, it's you." He cracked open one eyelid on hearing Galahad's angelic voice slide over his name. There was, he thought, a flicker of disdain buried within it, but he was accustomed to that. He didn't sit up, but closed his eye again, making it clear that he had no intention of giving up his resting place.

"Sir Galahad. How you honor me with your presence." He made no attempt to hide his own lack of enthusiasm at suddenly having Galahad's company foisted upon him. "How's knighthood treating you? Well, I hope."

"Quite well, sir, thank you," Galahad said stiffly. "Would the King not be displeased to learn you're shirking your duties?" At this, Mordred opened his eyes fully, and sat up on his elbows. It was a nearly disturbing reversal of their positions from their first meeting, the irony of which was not lost on him: no doubt Galahad thought him taken at a disadvantage, bringing up the King without a breath of warning. Mordred had suspected it was only a matter of time before the subject was broached in some manner, however, so he wasn't as taken aback as Galahad may have wanted.

"I doubt the King would care one way or another, but as it happens, I'm not shirking. I was up quite before dawn, and my morning duties are all finished. I'm taking a well-deserved rest, to which I am just as entitled as any other man who has earned it. And you? You could not have been looking for me to take me to task, for you just said that you didn't know there was anyone here." Galahad looked like he was debating the merits of speaking out. Mordred could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to decide what to say.

"I needed a moment away. Everyone has been so kind to me, truly, and I'm grateful, but it was suffocating me. I thought I might come out to be alone, and to pray." If there was anything Mordred was expecting, this plain-spoken honesty wasn't it. More than that, he wasn't expecting anything to which he could relate so completely. The feeling of being suffocated by good intentions was all too familiar to Arthur's bastard. It was his turn now to cast about for something to say, and came up empty, so instead he whistled for his dog, and started to his feet.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Good day, Sir Galahad."

"Wait." The syllable was abrupt, unnecessarily so for the languor of Mordred's movements, but it brought him to a halt nonetheless. "I don't want to chase you out. I won't disturb you, I only wanted some quiet." Mordred, surprised, could find no reason to decline, so he nodded and settled back down. His hound licked at his face and returned to her sunny patch to resume her nap. Eyes closed, he could hear only the rustle of wind through the trees, and beneath it Galahad's whispering voice - melodious even then - reciting some prayer or another. It scarcely made a difference in the end, to have him there. Just as he was on the edge of dozing, Galahad once again broke the silence.

"Was it so smothering when you were knighted?" As before, Mordred opened only one eye. He considered, and shrugged.

"I suppose. I barely remember most of it, I was so drunk. My fath - pardon - the  _ King _ was quite solemn about it, as I recall, but I suppose he must be, for ceremony's sake," Mordred lied. "Gawain and Agravaine had been knighted long before me, and the more charitable among them only knew me as the bastard half-brother of one of Arthur's most beloved Companions." He didn't need to say how the  _ un _ charitable ones knew him: it hadn't been a secret for a very long time. In fact, there were other secrets that were much more important to keep. Galahad made a humming sound that Mordred took as acknowledgement.

"Did drinking make it easier? I can't drink, but if it was anything like this for you, I hope that it did. I cannot fathom how it could be comfortable for anyone, to be so much the center of attention. It's as you said before, I didn't earn this, and while I know that I must accept what the Lord in His wisdom has granted me, it feels too much like pride to let them praise me for nothing." While Galahad spoke, Mordred turned to face him, resting his head in his hand and watching with careful consideration. Before, he had spoken purely out of bitterness and envy, but it clearly looked as if Galahad had taken his ill-meaning words to heart like advice. Guilt wormed through his belly.

"I hated the whole mess enough that forgetting was preferable to suffering through it, so I wouldn't say that drinking _helped_ , so much as it gave me an excuse not to think about anything that was happening \- especially if you take into account how terrible I felt the next day." Despite himself, he chuckled a little at the memory. He'd never been so drunk before, or since, and he had been in absolute misery the whole day after. Mordred rolled over again, this time sprawling out on his stomach with a sigh. It was uncomfortable, with his bound chest pressing down into the grass, but he had learned to deal with such minor discomforts as a small price to pay for a much greater reward.

"I expect it must be worse for you, being that you're Lancelot's son. There's no doubt that your being here is a good thing - especially given what they say, that you're destined for a greatness to surpass us all."

"To take credit for such a thing would be overvaluing myself. I'm here to perform the task which God has set for me, no more and no less." He spoke with certainty, but underneath it Mordred detected a certain melancholy. He knew better than to ask after it: such things were not meant to see the light of day.

"Having such a clear path would be nice. To have one purpose, one ideal for which to strive, is more than most of us can say for ourselves. For my part, I've had a surfeit of prophecies and doomsayers. You've heard what they say about me, I'm sure." Mordred's smile was thin and sharp, as though carved into his freckled face with a knife.

"I haven't, actually. I don't know anything about you at all. I've asked, but no one seems to want to tell me anything, and I was certain you had no desire to talk to me after that first time. Even Sir Gawain just looked at me like I was mad."

The razor-thin smile melted from Mordred's face, replaced by a look of bewilderment. He had thought that there was nothing left to surprise him about Arthur's knights, but this newcomer, for all that he seemed utterly predictable, managed to take him unawares at every turn. By slow degrees, he sat up and moved closer, until they sat side-by-side as though they were old friends.

"There's not much to know, apart from gossip that everyone believes. I'm Morgause's eldest, I have four brothers - you've met them all, I expect, by now - and one sister. And yes, Arthur is my father, but it didn't happen the way everyone says it did. I haven't burst into flames yet, or been dragged screaming into hell, so I suspect I'm safe for the time being. My siblings and I all come from Orkney, up in the northernmost part of Lothian. I'm mediocre with a sword, worse with a lance, but I can shoot a rabbit cleanly in the eye from the back of a horse at full gallop."

He lifted the corner of his mouth into a half-smile that was almost sheepish, and didn't quite meet Galahad's eye. It was exceeding seldom that anyone expressed an interest in him beyond what the prophecies had to say, and though he didn't think this made them friends, it was a relief that there was indeed someone whose opinion of him wasn't based solely on the words of Merlin or any other would-be prophet looking to ingratiate himself with the King.

"It's your turn," he said to Galahad in the ensuing silence. Galahad blinked slowly, in a way that - bizarrely - reminded Mordred of Gawain. "Tell me about yourself. If I know Arthur's knights, and I  _ do _ , they've already made up their minds about you based on the things they've heard from others. So tell me something that they would never care to hear."

"Well…" Galahad plucked at some grass, his face screwed up in thought. "I was brought up in the convent at Corbenic? The sisters there took care of me, they educated me and told me that God had a plan for my life. My mother told me that my grandfather dreamt of the Grail on the day that I was born. I hadn't met my father until I came to Camelot, and…" He trailed off, continuing to pick at the grass, now more furiously than before. His gaze was fixed onto his knees, which he had drawn up close as he spoke; Mordred couldn't puzzle out the expression he wore, but it was familiar at the same time.

"And…?" he prompted softly. Curiosity mingled with a bizarre sort of concern. He could guess at the sorts of thoughts a man like Galahad might not wish to think about his father, but he wanted - perhaps selfishly - to hear them from Galahad's own mouth.

"Nothing. I must not speak my mind in this, for it is Holy Writ that a son must honor his father and mother." As far as Mordred was concerned, it was as good as a confession: Galahad did not get on with the shining paragon of knighthood who had fathered him. Not that Mordred blamed him, since he couldn't see what everyone else saw in Lancelot to begin with. He took nothing seriously, and pranced off whenever it suited him to do so, with no explanation or warning. It was amazing he'd been here at all to knight his own son. Mordred huffed out a breath of air and stretched.

"Well, since according to popular opinion, I'm as good as damned anyway, it shouldn't hurt me much more to admit that I understand what you refuse to tell me. The King is noble and just, and he treats fairly with ally and enemy alike - I respect him endlessly for this as my liege - but let me confide in you, Sir Galahad, that he is  _ less  _ noble as a father. I wonder what it is about men of greatness that they feel compelled to spurn their bastards, whilst at the same time granting them high honors?" He glanced sidelong at Galahad, gauging his reaction: a flush across those high cheekbones, very much unlike the one that had turned him so bright red on their first meeting. This one, though coupled with a poorly-hidden scowl, was nearly fetching.

Silence reigned between them for a while, Galahad apparently having decided to forego replying at all. Mordred nearly expected him to get up and walk away again, but he remained. Galahad, with his knees hugged to his chest, could not have looked more opposite to Mordred's indolent sprawl. It wasn't precisely comfortable, the silence, but though he would never admit to it, it was better than sitting by himself in a mire of unwanted thoughts. The afternoon crawled on like this: mostly quiet, with a few abortive attempts at conversation that invariably ended in more silence.

Whether or not either of them wanted to leave, the sonorous clang of the church bells, calling the pious to None, overrode their wishes. Galahad practically leapt to his feet in a manner reminiscent of a child having been caught doing something he oughtn't. Mordred lingered only a moment or two behind him, and gradually stood up as well. He stretched enough to feel his joints pop.

"I suppose you'll be off, then?" Mordred tipped his head as he spoke, and was surprised to note that he sounded a little disappointed. It had been, in spite of how it had begun, a rather enjoyable afternoon. Spending time with other people wasn't typically Mordred's idea of a good time, but Galahad didn't require much of his energy or attention: he seemed content to let Mordred simply  _ exist  _ in his company. Indeed, for the most part, it had been Mordred driving their conversations, awkward and queerly personal as they were.

"Yes, I must. You won't be attending the liturgy?" Judging from his tone and expression, Galahad appeared genuinely surprised by this, which was not, in itself, surprising: Mordred reminded himself that Galahad was new, and had not yet grown accustomed to his unusual habits. The other Companions knew that church services did not rank highly in Mordred's personal list of important things. They had given up trying to convince him to change his mind - except, perhaps, for the ever-devout Sir Bors the Younger, whom Mordred found insufferable at the best of times.

"Given the nature of things, I can't say that I will. There's still work to be done, in any case. It wouldn't do to be caught shirking, would it?" He grinned with sincere amusement at his own joke, which he did only seldom, and almost never to anyone but his brothers. Galahad was charitable enough to return it with a fleeting little smile of his own, though it seemed there was a bit of pity in it: the sort the very religious give to non-believers, and which Mordred had learned quickly to dismiss as meaningless.

"Yes, well, I must go. Goodbye, Sir Mordred." This time, when Mordred watched him go, it was with the feeling that their next meeting would be on better terms. Whistling for his dog, he walked a little while along the edge of the river, the echo of the bells still shivering in the air.


	3. man or a monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my take on the murder of Morgause. I've completely rewritten the outcome of this in order to maximize the Angst Potential, and also because I just generally don't care for the way it's handled in most versions. It never struck me as particularly cohesive.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings for this chapter** for fairly graphic descriptions of beheading, canon-typical ableism re: mental illness, flashbacks, and trauma-related dissociation / numbness.
> 
> (Chapter title from "Man or a Monster" by Sam Tinnesz feat. Zayde Wølf.)

When Mordred was first knighted, he had not expected so little of his time to be spent pursuing quests. He knew from hearing stories that knights often rode abroad, meting out judgment and performing heroic tasks, but as Arthur's great peace reigned upon the land, the necessity for this sort of thing grew less and less. Many of the younger knights spent their time in more domestic offices, and while a great majority of them found such duties to be a waste of time and talent, Mordred had no such complaint. It wasn't that he was cowardly or incompetent, for in spite of his martial mediocrity, as he managed to claw his way upward by sheer tenacity (and no small amount of charisma), he came to discover that he was better disposed to matters of state than those of war.

As it was, over the three years since his accolade was granted, he was able to count on his hands the number of times he had been obliged to leave the High King's city in a knightly capacity. Even then, most of these assignments were peaceful: escorting a lady to and from Camelot in the absence of her lord; aiding an ally who had availed himself of Arthur's high justice; and other such simple tasks. Once, and only once, was he tasked with a duty that, according to the stories that came after, befitted the mantle of knighthood. In reality, there was nothing heroic or chivalrous about it.

Mordred returned from this assignment to little fanfare, which suited him well enough. Walking his horse through the city gates, both man and beast appeared equally bedraggled and exhausted. He left the horse to the grooms without a word. Perhaps it was the state of him, but no one stopped him to speak as he made his way to his chambers. In the years of his knighthood, his incipient reputation as  _ the King's bastard _ had been all but supplanted: he had a great many friends amongst his fellows, and was held in nearly as high esteem as Gawain in some respects, and though his innermost thoughts were as gloomy as ever, he was far more eager to laugh these days than before. Nevertheless, he was grateful to be given wide berth: he didn't believe he could summon up the will to laugh now, even if ordered by the High King himself.

The afternoon passed by in a haze of numbness once he had given the King his report. The only real thing was the dull  _ thunk  _ of arrow after arrow being embedded into the straw-and-sack dummies on the practice field, all of them hitting precisely where he aimed - but even that lulled him into something of a trance, until he reached back for a new one and found only air. He crossed the field to retrieve them, wrenching them free with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary and consequently dropping one. With dull surprise, he noted a faint tremor in his hand as he stooped to pick up the fallen arrow. He stood there, arrow in hand, and stared at it for a few too-long seconds before he decided that enough was enough for one day.

As he stored the bow and quiver, a shadow shifted in Mordred's periphery. He turned to face it, and from the early-evening dimness emerged a familiar shape.

"I hadn't known you were back," said Galahad by way of greeting. The two of them had forged an unlikely sort of friendship since that far-away afternoon spent by the riverside, and Mordred was far from the only one to find it surprising. Even now, he frequently wondered what it was that kept the much-beloved son of Lancelot at his side, but never thought to pursue an answer - perhaps for fear of what he might learn.

"I'm back," he replied unnecessarily, his voice dull even to his own ears. Even in the poor light, he saw Galahad's expression morph into one of concern. He was well aware of what Galahad was seeing that made his brow crinkle and his lips purse: he'd lost weight, his face was haggard, his eyes empty. He looked - and felt - like a husk of the man he'd been before he'd left.

"You never told me what it was you were sent to do. It must have been unpleasant: you didn't notice me at all on the field, even though I was watching you for at least an hour." The melodic lilt of Galahad's voice mirrored the pinched worry on his disparate features, and hearing it tugged uncomfortably at Mordred's emotions. For all that he had been unable to let himself think too closely on the catastrophe that had been his mission, Galahad was able to coax it from him without an iota of effort.

"Not here." It was all he needed to say to convince Galahad to follow him, his longer legs easily matching Mordred's brisk, somewhat harried stride. They ended up in one of the smaller gardens, one of which the Queen was less fond, and so received only the bare minimum of attention. No one was in it now, and no one likely to come by, so Mordred permitted himself to collapse on one of the stone benches, mostly overtaken by ivy. Galahad sat beside him, close enough that their sides were pressed together, partly due to the smallness of the bench and partly - Mordred had long since learned - due to a well-hidden aspect of his nature, which longed perpetually for contact. (A part which was mirrored in Mordred, even now.)

Galahad waited in silence, expectant but not impatient, for Mordred to say something. It was a while, for he needed to gather his thoughts and his courage both; when he did speak, he did so without any of his usual quicksilver eloquence.

"I was sent to find Gaheris. To bring him back, so that he…" Mordred shook his head and exhaled sharply. "I have to start at the beginning. No one outside the family was meant to know, so you must swear to me never to tell another soul."

"I do. On my honor as a knight, and with my Lord God as my witness." Mordred nodded his acceptance: Christian vows meant little to him as a rule, but from Galahad, it was as binding as any vow could ever be.

"Gaheris was the one who murdered our mother." The words stung as they flew from his lips, and he flinched to hear himself say them. "He and Agravaine and I were north to visit her - Gawain was too busy, and Gareth refused - and we found her in bed with Sir Lamorak. Gaheris went  _ mad _ . He struck off her head, right there in that same moment, without even giving her the chance to dress or explain. Lamorak… He must have fled, I didn't see. Agravaine insisted that he must have meant the blow for Lamorak instead of Mother, that in the darkness he struck the wrong person, but I was closer to Gaheris when it happened. He knew what he was doing."

The memory of it was vivid, although the murder was now several months old, and he remembered every detail with absolute clarity: the sight of Gaheris' maddened face, the look of horror on Morgause's as her head was cleaved from her body, the iron reek of the blood as it stained the furs on the bed and the floor. Mordred nearly believed he was there again, until he felt the feather-light touch of Galahad's hand upon his shoulder.

"We helped him escape. We knew that if we brought him back with us, Arthur would be forced to execute him. So Agravaine and I sent him to our Aunt Morgan to hide, and to make it seem like a struggle, we beat and cut one another, and arranged the story that Gaheris was driven mad by a witch we met on our way. We brought this tale back to the King, and for a while it was enough.

"A month ago, Lamorak returned to court. While he could not refute our claim of witchcraft, nor could he attest that Gaheris had not bested Agravaine and me in combat, he demanded justice for what he perceived was an attempt on his life. It was his right to do so, but I begged Arthur to let me seek justice for Morgause as well - so he sent me to bring my brother back."

It was meant to be a straightforward journey: north to Rheged, where Gaheris was meant to be hiding, only to be met with the news straight from Morgan's mouth that Gaheris had declined her hospitality and went alone on his way. Mordred remembered how his aunt had described his wayward brother, as seeming quite calm and in full control of his senses, but with a distinct streak of madness running through him - like a vein of gold through stone. She'd confessed, too, that she was not sorry to see him go. While it was true that the sisters had not spoken in close to two decades, the love between them had not diminished, even to the moment of Morgause's death.

The two of them had scryed for some sign of Gaheris - where he had been, where he might be going - but were met with precious little, for the second-youngest of Morgause's sons was perhaps the  _ least  _ touched by the magic that pervaded their family, thus making him nearly impossible to find with even Morgan's formidable Sight. Mordred, in his desperation, was tempted to seek out the aid of Avalon, but time did not permit him to travel so far out of his way. He traveled on alone, stopping through every village and hamlet to ask after his brother. Some information was good, though most was falsehood offered in the hope of some reward.

"I found him, eventually. I ought to have known he would return home, but I suppose I was giving him too much credit for cleverness. My aunt was wrong: there was no trace of sanity left in him by the time I got to the island. It would have been cruel to bring him back in the state he was in, but more than that, I think that I was afraid that Gaheris, mad as he was, might give the lie to the story Agravaine and I told Arthur. It was cowardice, in the end, as much as mercy that brought me to end his life. There's a bit of that evil in all of us, save perhaps Gawain and Gareth - and more in me than in any of us still living, for I lied again to save face before my father. I told him that Gaheris refused to go with me, and so forced my hand, but in truth he  _ begged  _ me -"

Mordred's voice broke, stopping him midsentence. Gaheris had begged him to die, just as their mother had died. Unable to bear the sight of his brother so broken, he acquiesced, even though the act was completely devoid of honor for either of them. Gaheris sat in his smallclothes in Morgause's bed - had wanted to be without a shred of clothing on, also as Morgause had been, but Mordred could not allow that indignity - and with patience and forbearance not unlike a Christian saint, allowed his brother to strike off his head.

Mordred didn't say this, unable to bring the words to bear for even Galahad to hear, so he finished as simply and briefly as he could manage.

"The deed was done, and Arthur declared the matter finished, my vengeance and Lamorak's satisfied, though there's nothing satisfactory about any of it. My mother and brother are dead, and I am saddled with yet another secret which I must carry to my grave. You're the only one to know the whole truth of it, and if there's any justice at all in this world, that is the way it will stay."

With a deep, bone-weary sigh, he made to stand, only to be prevented by Galahad's arms around his shoulders. The embrace was edging on desperate, and though the two of them were hardly parsimonious in their physical displays of affection, never had Galahad initiated such intimacy before: neither with Mordred, nor with anyone that he knew of. Still, there was nothing Mordred could do but let it happen. He sat there in silence, leaning into Galahad, whose face was now buried into the crook of his neck. He couldn't bring himself to feel anything once the initial shock had gone, but it was marginally better than being alone with what he'd done.

"You did the right thing." Even muffled and thick with tears, Galahad's voice was beautiful, but in that moment, Mordred nearly hated it.

"Did I? I can think of nothing  _ right  _ about murdering one's own kin. We never got on well, but he was still my brother." He couldn't bring himself to blame Gaheris for what had happened: he'd always been the least-favored of them all, but he had loved Mother best even so. Gaheris had never wanted to leave Orkney in the first place, and had only gone in order to make Morgause proud and perhaps finally win a scrap of her regard. No, Mordred could not blame him for finally losing his tenuous grip on sanity after all this time. In truth, more of his grief was for Gaheris than for Morgause. He loved his mother, but her machinations had twisted them all in some way or another.

"He's free of it all now," Galahad said softly, perhaps more to himself than to Mordred, and Mordred could think of no reply so the two of them lapsed into silence for a time. Galahad eventually dropped his arms, but remained with his head pillowed upon Mordred's narrow shoulder. Mordred, with his eyes closed, tried to drown out his thoughts with the sound of Galahad's soft, even breathing and the warmth of his body so close to his own. It nearly worked.

"It's getting late. They'll be ringing Vespers soon." Once more, it was Galahad who broke Mordred from his silence. "Walk back with me?"

They returned to the castle without speaking, for which Mordred was grateful: he felt wrung dry, and though he no longer felt quite as though he were floating numbly through fog, there remained the sensation of separateness, of detachment. He dreaded having to speak to his brothers and tell them what he had done. Galahad offered no judgment, but he knew that Gawain and the others would not be nearly so gracious. The bells pealed out across the sky, calling the pious and fearful to their evening service, and Galahad looked - perhaps for the first time since Mordred had known him - almost unwilling to go.

"I'm not going to fall on my sword once you leave, if that's what you're worried about." He said it as lightly as he could manage, which wasn't much, but it was less a joke than he tried to make it sound. "Go do your duty to your God. I wouldn't want to be the cause of your eternal damnation or whatever will happen if you miss chapel one time."

"That doesn't happen," Galahad replied soberly, "but if you're certain…?"

"Yes, I promise. I'll be alright. I'll see you in the morning." With a curt nod, Galahad turned and left, but this time, Mordred did not stay to watch him go.


End file.
